The Life Cycle of a Rose
by eliska
Summary: Together, we blossom, we wither. Five Nordic drabbles, five sentences each.


**A/N:** So. I wrote this in a sort of stream-of-consciousness, rambling style at one in the morning—which explains why you might find the punctuation so screwed up. I dunno, really; it doesn't flow as well with proper mechanics, so…think of it as artistic license, if you will. None of the five-sentence (yes, they are five…long sentences each) drabbles are interconnected—although you may view it as such. Most are one-sided, just to clarify, and two of them include rape of sorts. Plus an overdose of crazy!Denmark. Just a warning.

And, as always, random historical references ftw. Constructive criticism is appreciated since I have no idea what the fuck is happening in most of them and I didn't edit.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own. So don't sue.

* * *

the life cycle of a rose

* * *

**i. rosebuds****  
**  
It began unnoticed by everyone, even himself, and when Iceland did come to a realization he hid it deep underneath his heart, because he knew it was something that would never come true. Unaccountable wistful glances were sent to no avail; there was always someone else there, sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but they always, always had something more fitting than what he had to give. He could only stand there and take his brother's hand, with everyone mistaking it for a simple gesture of brotherly love. Because what else, what else could it possibly be? And so it was there, in the recesses of some hidden turmoil and struggles, where he kept the bud a bud forever.  
**  
****ii. first blossom****  
**_  
__Go away_, was the first comment that came to mind when he noticed the other boy trailing behind him yet again, that stupid, incessant grin on his face. Norway had no idea what to do or what to say to him anymore because every time he pushed him away the other blond always came bouncing right back, like some crazy masochist. Sometimes they sat together in silence; the younger blond never did like having anyone near him, but that gradually wore off as the year progressed, and when spring came and melted the snow the other boy had asked him if he wanted to go out on a trip or something, because damn it had been a long year and everyone was tired, tired, tired. He'd felt a knot tie up in his stomach but really couldn't find any excuse not to; besides, they'd been talking about those damned flowers for so long now and he wanted to see them bad. So he said yes.

**iii. full blossom**

He doesn't like anyone leaving him, oh no—it becomes a battle of sorts to even stay sane, in a paranoia that spreads far and wide when there is nobody left but one, and he doesn't like being alone, not one bit, so he will fight to the end to get what he wants. And when he kisses Sweden, bites hard into his lips, digs his nails into his skin, and the fire begins to burn unlike no other, like every other. Their bodies are locked, intertwined with each other, inseparable, a caricature of war and emotion. Love is obsession and obsession is nothing more than a name, but in essence everything but a name; he's been to places that nobody had ever seen before, that nobody would ever see, and he likes to keep it that way, him belonging to himself, everyone belonging to him. _Nobody pushes me away_, he thinks, as he stares into the other's gaze, the unseeing strange gaze of someone who is too jaded to turn away but not yet down, his immortal enemy from the beginning until the end.

**iv. rosehips**

They'd been married for what, several hundred years now, and he still has no idea what to say whenever the Finland kisses his cheek, whenever he catches him in the kitchen with god-knows-what on the stove, whenever he's humming the _polkka_, whenever he lets that ball of fluff sleep between them in bed. He still maintains that they'd made the right choice when they ran out so long ago—he still has the scars to show it; he doesn't like to talk about it much (when he hardly talks at all to begin with), but everyone knows, deep down—but he has resigned himself to the fact that he doesn't much about showing emotion. It's not that strange, really, when you live in a cold cold place and everything freezes, your nerves and your senses, but he feels as if he should make an effort, any effort, for the young Finn who never seemed to complain. Because he needs that, he needs a smile_, that_ smile, in every day, of someone who is strong but gentle and kind, someone who's been with him long enough to know him inside out, someone who cares, to keep him from falling into those memories. And so the bespectacled man knows it will be him, always be him, _til death do them part_.

**v. witherings**

When Denmark closed the door behind him, he knew something was wrong, wrong, wrong; of course everything was wrong because his brother had just left yesterday and he'd felt something inside of him break when he peeked at the departure from behind the door, but the savage glare that was coming towards him implied something even more disturbing. He'd barely had any time to scream before the other flung himself on top of him like a crazed animal, hands locked on his throat, whispering, rambling, incoherent words and phrases that all made no sense to him nor to anyone else. The white-haired boy managed to choke out, briefly, his brother's name, but it only served to incense the Dane; half-whispering, half-sobbing, he ripped off the younger's shirt, and, pinning him down on the bed, started doing things that made him scream, for real this time, with all the while a strange, hoarse rasp ravaged his ears—_you're not him, you're not him, you're not_—and he knew, horrified, what was happening. They laid there for a long time after he was done, his breathing still rapid and furious, pleading words of anguish and apologies falling upon ears that were in a faraway place, in a stranger's body; the white-haired boy did not know what to feel, not the physical pain, but wondered if his brother had ever been in this position, wondering bitterly if this was all that he would ever be, the withered petals of a rose long gone, the smell still lingering but distant, strange, muted. And then he turned around, his back to the other man, and slept, myriad dreams giving away to a remote hollowness inside.


End file.
